All I Want For Christmas
by Cairnsy
Summary: A wistfully written Christmas wish list. A window into a soul that has always been guarded. When both fall unexpectingly into someone's hands, a gift that has little do to with glitter or gold is given.
1. The First Day of Christmas.

Merry Christmas everyone, from here in New Zealand! Hope everyone has as fabulous a Christmas day as I'm having, off to see LoTR's in a few moments, but thought I'd post this first. First of about 5 chapters, I don't think you'll need three guesses to figure out who it is about! 

Thanks again to my fabulous beta-reader, Weasleytwin2. There IS an email coming for you =) 

Now. The fic. 

**All I want for Christmas.**

He'd always wanted the room with a view. There was no higher place in the Gryffindor tower, no one bed suite that could quite match the finery or rash elegance, with the sole exception of the three other, tower top rooms that were laying dormant this year. You were supposed to be able to see everything from these windows, here at the top of the world, where only the elite were allowed to rest. And all the others, the ones you represented and worked for, the ones who were your responsibility and your cause, were all to look up to you. You and your room with the view. 

Strange, how now that the view was his, he could only see a blanket of endless snow, that seemed to mute everything in its apathy. There were no plains of exploration, no mountains of potential. No lochs of acceptance. Just an empty paleness, emotionless as it was colourless, devoid of as much life as it was vibrancy. He'd been expecting something different, even though the view from the ground had always been the same. 

A fire that was slowly being strangled by the ice breeze that filtered through the thrown open window gave one last strangled cry before collapsing into a pile of dust and ash, robbing the room of the allusion of warmth it had tried to provide. He didn't notice, he preferred the sting of the western wind to the false comfort of the gentle glow in any case, and there was enough light still remaining in the mid-afternoon sky that the room did not darken enough to draw his eyes from the sheet of paper that he held in his pale hand. Every year those who remained over Christmas had some form of this parchment thrust at them, whether it be by Prefects eager to rise in popularity stakes, or first years desperately clinging to some way of relieving the heavy home sickness that accompanied the first time they were to be away from family at this time of year. They all filled it out, some sent a copy home to their parents, others pointed out certain aspects of it to their friends. The Twins made hundreds of replicas each time, stuffing into peoples porridges or under bedroom doors, even plastering the walls with them like cheap Muggle wall paper. 

All I want for Christmas. It was scrawled in different hand writing at the top of the otherwise blank sheet each year, but the wording always stayed the same. He'd only ever asked for one thing, always believing that the one thing he wrote down would lead to all of his other desires, once achieved. 

The room with the view. 

An anger that was spurred by betrayal urged him to pick up a nearby quill, and he did as it demanded. What did he want for Christmas, now that he had his beloved room, and all its promised 'answers'? Hand writing that was normally formal and light slashed down on the innocent parchment, indenting not only the paper, but the desk beneath it, at times even staining the oak wood with dabs of ink when the pressure became too much for the thin piece to hold. What did he want, the Percy that he had always ignored because he didn't fit in with the room with the view? Friends. Music. To sit in cafes and simply watch the world revolve around him, instead of always feeling the need to be leading them all as if they were part of some race. To experience, to be thrilled. To paint, to write, to sing off key and horrendously loud. As the thoughts came, he wrote them all down in a rush, not daring to stop, least his own fears convince him never to start up again. To socialise with his brothers, for them to *want* to socialise with him in turn. To crave, to lust. To be with others, instead of being isolated up here alone in this godamned room. 

To have a new view. 

As quickly as the urge to bear his soul came, it flew once again away, leaving nothing but a paper filled of damning evidence of just how pathetic he was. He would throw the parchment on the fire, but the heat that had so fuelled his own anger had long since deserted the muted coals, no longer an amber red, but a soot black. Instead he tore the list in half, not with the violence that he had had only moments earlier, but with a jaded indifference. It was a list made in wistful thinking, a list that none would ever lay eyes on. Yet, he watched it with silent eyes as he let the torn pieces rise on a magical wind, and float towards the window, before releasing the spell. He kept his eyes on the two halves briefly, as they were wiped away by the storming snow. He did not see their turbulent journey to the white washed ground, many stories below, nor did he see the first sprinkle of fresh snow gently begin to cover it. He then missed also, the pair hands that reached for the two pieces just before the snow had hidden them completely from the world. 

*****

**The 1st Day of Christmas.**

Percy had discovered long ago that, if he merely chose not to get out of bed during the holiday months, no-one would notice. Days he had spent, cocooned in his quilt, staring blankly at the entwining design that made up the painted wall opposite him, thinking little, enjoying the sense of numbness while being unable to rid himself of his lethargicy. He'd wondered sometimes if they could possibly forget him forever, never noticing if he failed to ever emerge from his blankets. He'd then of course ridicule himself - Perfect Percy, angsting? Hardly. 

They never noticed, when he wasn't down for breakfast. Even when he traipsed down for Dinner or an afternoon snack, his presence barely registered. It did not surprise them when they saw him not in the fields throwing snowballs, or in front of a roasting fire with a cup of cocoa and ever-roasting marshmallows. They didn't seem to remember that he used to love those things as much as they did, in fact, they seemed to have convinced themselves that he had never participated or enjoyed those things ever before. 

Ah, Winter. The season for good will, peace between all men and antidepressants. 

There was something not quite right about his view of the opposite wall, he suddenly realised. He knew every line, each crack on first name basis, yet it still took him a moment to note what was so out of place that his mind had managed to pick it up before his eyes had. 

There was an envelope, gently resting against the ruby skirting boards. 

He blinked, but the mysterious envelope remained exactly where it was, directly in his line of vision. Hesitantly, he rose from his bed, shuffling towards it, blankets still wrapped firmly around his frame. He sat down in front of the envelope, not daring yet to touch. Cream in colour, only two words adorned the front, written in a curved gold that shone in the dim room: Percy Weasley. 

It was his. Somehow, that thrilled him. It was too splendid to be one of the types of letters he normally received, he doubted whatever was inside told of new responsibilities or meetings he had to attend. And while perhaps the Twins could have planted it as some cruel joke, the spells he had cast on his room made it impossible for either of them to enter. He picked the envelope up gingerly, flipping it around revealed no sender's address or name, and somehow he found that such an admission did not surprise him. The flap was simply folded down, not sealed, and the thin sheet of parchment inside slipped out easily. 

A frown formed as he traced his finger over the words that were inscribed delicately in the same golden glamour of his name on the envelope. What did it mean, the simple '1st Day of Christmas'? He turned the piece of paper over, but there was no more writing even on the other side. Tapping the paper gently in thought, he was caught by surprise when the golden letters suddenly began to unfurl, and then disintegrate into tiny golden flecks. Rising on invisible currents, the flecks seemed to dance in the streaks of morning sunlight that had begun to filter into the room. Enchanted, he could do little more than watch as the twirled first one way, then dove another. He almost groaned aloud in dismay when Hermes suddenly squawked, causing the golden dancers to collapse back instantly on to the parchment. He trailed a finger through the flecks a couple of times, hoping to entice them back to their impromptu dance, with no avail. He rose to his feet, gently carrying the parchment and envelope over to his desk, slowly tipping the golden flecks into a small glass jar that had been given to him one Christmas by Ginny. Even behind glass, they flickered beautifully, now bronze, then a sun-kissed gold. 

He would ponder the cryptic meaning of the words later, he thought, heading towards the sanctuary of his bed. However, he found himself pausing mid-step, suddenly in two minds. The door was only a quick change of clothes away, perhaps, perhaps ... 

He suddenly found himself in the mood for breakfast. 

* 

Warm candles lit the Great Hall, the morning mog darkening the room enough that such light was necessary. There was unlikely to be any games in the snow today, Percy reflected, eyes focused on the magical ceiling above, which was being pounded by heavy snow. The storm that had been threatening last night had broken, much to the disdain of all the students who had plans for sleigh rides and toboggan contests. 

"What are we going to do all day?" Ron moaned in a manner that reminded him of a 10 year old who needed to be constantly entertained in some way. "We had a smashing time yesterday building those forts, and now this ruddy storm has gone and ruined them all!" Percy listened on silently as the prattle between his brothers and their friends continued on. The Twins and Ron were joined as always by Harry and Hermione, but this year Seamus and Lavender had remained behind also. 

"Pass me the salt, would you, Perce?" 

And Oliver, he added as an afterthought, as he handed his smiling, ex-roommate the salt container. This all felt rather ... domestic, sitting here, having breakfast and the conversation that one held at such a meal. Even though no-one had uttered an intelligent word all morning, he'd enjoyed their silly nonsense, even if that enjoyment failed to be reflected for others to see. But this slight respite was doomed to be short lived, and it wasn't long before they all rose from the table, off to do something to pass the time. He found his eyes suddenly drawn to the delicate design of his plate as they began to leave, a design much like that of his wall. The curves where not quite as circular, and the lines more narrow, entwining a tad too tightly to be an exact replica. The pieces of egg that clung to the plate still were distracting, and he moved them aside irritably, not wanting to lose his concentration as he followed the swells and dips of the design. 

"Percy Weasley, pal." The firm pat on his shoulder followed by the warm voice pulled his thoughts from the dish in front of him, and he turned surprised eyes instead on the small boy who had appeared at his side, and the wide grin that adorned his face. 

"Seamus?" It came out far more abrupt than he had planned it to, and he scolded himself as the Irish smile faltered slightly at the corners, before returning just as brilliantly as before. "Is, is there something I can do for you?" The smile widened, something that he had moments before believed was actually impossible, as Seamus dropped into the vacant seat to his left. 

"We're going to play Trivial Pursuit upstairs, I need a partner." Seamus looked at him expectantly, yet he could only return the boy a startled gaze. A quick glance around the room showed many potential partners for Seamus, ones who were more popular or well liked, those who were as witty and humorous as they were intelligent. Far better, and funnier, partners than he could ever be. 

"You want ... me? Are you sure?" 

The smile was accompanied by a nod and laughter that tinkled with friendliness, not the mockingness he was so used to. Seamus was a strange boy, Percy decided. He wondered if he could convince Molly to adopt him. Or better yet, trade him for the Twins. 

"You're intelligence mixed with my ability to charm the opposition, we make the perfect team!" Seamus didn't so much as rise from his seat as bounce out of it. 

"Seamus, I don't see how 'charm' plays into Trivial Pursuit." 

"Simple Perce," Seamus replied, and that smile was back again. "While I'm busy dazzling them with my wit, they will be too busy admiring me to see that you are enchanting the cards so we know the answers!" 

"I would never do such a thing! That is cheating!" 

"And see, you've even got the denial down perfectly, no-one will suspect you!" It was said triumphantly, and Percy found he had to duck his head to hid the tiny grin that was being forced into public by Seamus. 

"I do have much school work I have to get done." It was his token resistance, the last chance for Seamus to realise that he really didn't want Percy as a partner, after all. But the other boy simply pfted, practically dragging him to his feet. 

"You have all holidays for that, now is designated play time. We better be quick though, I bet the others have already started without us, the prats." 

And that was how he found himself many hours later, sitting to the left of Seamus and on the right of Ron, who was scowling at him rather ferociously, no doubt because the team of Ron and Harry was losing heavily. Even Oliver and Lavender, who had entered the game much later, had over taken the luckless pair, who were losing more due to haste and arrogance on Ron's behalf as opposed to any lack of intelligence. The Twins had surprised him with their intelligence - he'd checked carefully several times to make sure they had not enchanted the cards in any way, always coming up negative. They were running second. 

He and Seamus were coming first, of course. It turned out that Seamus was as good a charmer as he had bragged to be. 

"I can't believe you two got that one!" Ron growled in disgust, before throwing the card down. Seamus laughed, and Percy found himself smiling, just a tad. Oliver shook his head slightly from his position up on the couch, disbelief warring with humour in those brown eyes. This time Percy found himself having to bite back what would have been a full fledged grin. Had he *ever* grinned in such a way? Oliver was the only other person in the room to be able to sense that there was something that was not completely innocent about how he and Seamus were playing the game, but was not quite powerful enough to call Percy on it. There were times it certainly paid to be the strongest Wizard in the house. 

But that last card had signified the end of the game, or rather, the end of the 7th game. They'd taken a break for lunch and then dinner several hours ago, and half drunken mugs of hot chocolate littered the soft carpet in front of the glowing fire that were all mostly sitting on. In between the games of Trivial Pursuit there had been games of Exploding Snap - for 8 or more players, Monopoly, Wizard World and many of the other games that came out when a storm kept them in. The sun had only shone weakly for a few hours around noon, before disappearing completely, but even in the candle light that had kept the room at the same brightness all day, it was easy to tell if only be the yawns that were beginning to make their rounds that it was well into the night. He found that he would have done anything to keep the games going and the hot chocolate refilling, rather than to face to coldness and loneliness that was in contrast his room. But it seemed that it was unavoidable that they were all to soon go their separate ways to bed, although chances where that sleep would not come quickly to those who had others in their dorm. 

So it was a surprise then, when Dumbledore suddenly appeared in the Gryffindor common room, Flinch at his side. The Care Taker had what could only be described as a mountain of sleeping bags in his arms, and it was hard to see the bitter twistedness that always made up the man's expression over the top of them. 

"It seems there has been a little problem with the heating," Dumbledore spoke up with a slight frown. "The fire places in the upstairs dorms appear to be not working." 

"You're kidding, right?" Oliver spoke up above the groans. "How do fire places stop working?" 

"You're guess is as good as mine, Mr Wood." This time the smile that was more well known on the Principal's face had returned. "But Mr Filch has promised me that the problem will be solved by the morning. Until then, perhaps it would be best if you all slept down here for the evening." He motioned towards Filch, who dropped the sleeping bags on the floor in a heap, before turning to leave. 

The grumbling was mostly muted as they all set out their sleeping bags in front of the one fire that seemed to be working in the Tower. It was more the inconvenience that seemed to bother the Gryffindor lot, but as he slipped into his sleeping bag that had ended up between Oliver - The Twins had thrown him off the couch almost instantly, claiming it as their own, and Harry, he found that it didn't bother him at all, even though it wasn't silent or calm, as he had always assumed he wanted things. Conversation still went on for a good 20 minutes, mostly insane comments from the Twins, before someone suggested finally dimming most of the candles. Even as the brilliant lights faded, the warmth did not. He had a feeling that had more to do with the strange company he was in, than the fire that still burned softly. 

"Good night, Ron." 

"Night, Harry." 

"See you in the morning, Lavender." 

"Seamus, I swear, if I find anything in my sleeping bag when I wake up ..." 

"Would I do that?" 

"Of course you would." 

"Yeah, you're right." 

"Seamus!" 

"Night, Fred." 

"Night, Ollie." 

"G'night, Perce." 

"Good ... good night, George. Sleep well." 

***** 

**The 2nd Day of Christmas.**

The storm had mostly blown over the next day, enough so that the forts that Ron had moaned about the other day could be rebuilt. He found himself mourning the storm, which had brought on its winds a social atmosphere that he had for once managed to be part of, an accepted part of. But as the winds had died down, so had his feeling of belonging, and the magic of the day before was no longer there. He mentioned something about joining them for lunch that afternoon, but did not venture from the common room before then or after, more than happy to snuggle up in one of the overly stuffed chairs with one of his text books. 

Yesterday had been something special, and although the magic was no longer present, it still lingered in his mind. Had it been purely coincidental that the wonderful day had occurred on the same one that the strange letter had arrived? He'd realised where he had remembered the phrase written on the note earlier that morning - 'The 1st Day of Christmas' was from some Muggle Christmas song. A little known Wizard band had tried to do a cover of it, changing the Muggle terms for Wizard ones, but it had never taken off. Had whoever had sent the letter had some connection the strangeness of yesterday? 

But perhaps it was silly to try and force such a connection. After all, the gold glitter had been enough of a present in itself, and it was hard to believe that someone had somehow arranged all the events that had happened yesterday. 

As Dumbledore had promised, the dorms heating had been restored, and as evening began to fall, the tired Gryffindors retired early. The late night the night before, coupled with the physical exertion of today had sapped them of all their energy - there would be no Trivial Pursuit in front of the fire. Reluctantly, he forced himself from the chair he'd lived in most of the day, not wanting to go back up to his room with a view, now that he had experienced life briefly outside of it. The journey up the stairs tired him, although he'd been doing nothing all day that would contribute to such a physical weakness. 

The moment he swung open the door to his room however, the tiredness deserted him, as did words. Astonishment coloured his features, as he slowly walked into the room that was his, yet at the same time, really wasn't. Tiny delicate candles floated around the room, their flames burning in wonderful shades of red and gold, making the entire room seem bathed in some unearthly glow. Hesitantly, he walked towards his bed, where a bed spread that seemed to be spun from silver itself lay, perfectly made. It looked nothing like the woven blanket his mother had bestowed on him on his first year upon entering Hogwarts. He rested a hand on it, unable to believe. He turned down the stunning spread, only to find that what lay underneath surprised him even more. Blushing, he lowered his eyes so that they no longer were locked on the black satin, satin! sheets. With a shyness that seemed silly to reserve for an object, he ran a hand gently across the silky sheets, his blush growing deeper as he kept his eyes averted. Satin sheets were impractical and silly, not to mention ridiculously expensive. They certainly weren't for the likes of him. He stole a glance at the sheets, which seemed to be dancing in a shinny black because of the light. And smiled. Not that it dimmed the warmth of his face. 

Before he could begin to question the who and how - his mind had yet to begin operating on a normal level, his eyes glanced on the piece of parchment that lay on one of the pillows, no longer a set of standard Hogwarts ones, but what turned out to be stuffed with down feathers. The gold lettering was instantly recognisable, and for a moment he found he couldn't breathe. _On the Second Day of Christmas_. 

To be continued ... 


	2. The Third Day of Christmas.

Author's notes: Big thanks to Isabeau for her fabulous beta job, as well as to all of those who reviewed the first chapter =). 

**The Third Day of Christmas.**

He found himself not wanting to get out of bed when the sun crept in the next morning, although this time it had little to do with his desire to lose himself. He wriggled in quiet delight beneath the wonderful duvet that had faded from the brilliant silver into a rich red that shimmered with a assortment of shades. He tried not to think of the satin sheets, although he certainly allowed himself to enjoy their silky texture and the way they made him feel simply wonderful, just from having rested on them. If it wasn't for the fact he had run numerous revealing spells over them, he would think the sheets themselves possessed some form of magic, for it had been a long time since he had woken up feeling as though he was ... special. It felt strange to even think of himself that way. 

It was a feeling that was sure to wear off eventually, which was another reason why he would have been content to remain in his fabulous bed for many hours more. But the library called to him, not for study or extra assignments, as it usually did, but to try and solve the mystery that was all of this. Perhaps if he could find a copy of the Muggle song that seemed to be related in some way to the letters ... 

The library was empty when he finally coaxed himself down there. Even though there was surely a mass of assignments that many of the students had, it was likely that it would all be left to the last minute, Percy reflected disapprovingly. He was positive the Twins would corner him on Boxing day, swearing with innocent eyes that the dung beetles or stink bombs that had been sent to him for Christmas hadn't really been from them, and would he mind helping them with their Dark Arts assignment? 

For a pair of brats who prided themselves on their individual flair, they were getting awfully predictable. 

The Hogwarts library, which had always fulfilled his academic needs, was turning out to be rather hopeless when it came to Muggle Christmas songs. He'd never been convinced that he'd be able to find the song in the small non class based section of the library, but had felt for sure that it would be covered in the Muggle studies section. According to the catalogue, there should be at least 30 books covering Muggle music, yet he hadn't been able to track down a single one. They couldn't all be out, surely? Perhaps someone had accidentally split invisibility ink on the section of the bookcase they had been in? 

But no amount of revealing spells could find the books, and Percy had a sneaking suspicion that he had been outplayed. Whoever was sending the gifts obviously knew him well enough to know he would check out the library for clues. In fact, they were most likely wondering what had taken him so long! 

With a groan, he let himself flop bonelessly into the closest chair, glancing down impassively at one of the books he did have in his hands. Advanced Herbology. Damn Herbology for being a compulsory subject even for Seventh years, it was the subject he'd always had the most trouble with. There were just so many names that one had to remember, and getting it wrong could be more deadly than a mistake in potions. Briefly, he glanced at the worn book beneath the dreaded Herbology one. Aristophanes: The Clouds. It was the only old attic comedy that the library held, certainly the only Aristophanes play. Even though the humour could be at times downright vulgar, he'd found himself loving the play like a guilty pleasure. At times, he'd even found himself laughing out loud at some of the scenes, and when he'd read the forward from the translator saying that this was one of Aristophanes' least popular plays, he'd been shocked. The comic masterpiece had written plays that were considered far better, quality wise? He had considered asking the Librarian to order several of the other plays in, but had quickly talked himself out of it. It would not do for people to find out that Percy Weasley read such 'trash'. Even if that trash was ancient literature that was fabulously funny. If the Twins ever caught on that he read even the one book that had such content, he would be doomed to a fate that would suggest following the road that Socrates took. 

Ah, Socrates. An ancient philosopher of far more class than the crude Aristophanes. Far more boring, as well. 

With a hesitance that came each time he had to make this decision, he placed the play down on the desk, and opened up the Herbology text book instead, running slightly desperate eyes over the long lists he would have to have memorised before his final exams. He _thought_ he knew most of them, but what if one of the ones he didn't know turned up as a long essay, or if he didn't know them in enough depth? As a bunch of third years swooped into the room, giggling and chattering away loudly and with not an ounce of respect for the sole member of the room, Percy decided that perhaps it would be best to take his study elsewhere. A smile came to his face as thought of his room. Perhaps he would study on his bed, instead of at his desk as usual. Checking the Herbology book out at the door, he was reading it as he walked back to the common room, when he crashed into something that was amazingly solid, considering he was walking in the middle of the corridor. 

Arms flailing in what must have seemed comic to any bystander, he managed to retain his balance, although lost his glasses in the effort. As the world blurred before him, he felt himself begin to panic, dropping into a crouch. He thrust a blind hand in front of him, a desperate hopelessness guiding it. They found instead of the glasses a warm hand, which quickly clutched onto his own. 

"Perce, here they are." While the form of the person in front of him was merely a mass of blurs, the voice was undeniably Oliver's. The hand that wasn't holding his own rose to his face, and awkwardly slipped the glasses back on. With a shuddering breath of relief, he let Oliver pull him to his feet, thanking the other boy with a silent nod. 

"Lethea monoi," Oliver spoke up quietly as he bent down to pick up the briefly forgotten Herbology book, before handing it to Percy. Lethae monoi. Of course. It was the summoning spell he had cast on the glasses, so that he could call them to him if they ever fell or slipped. He'd forgotten it when panic had blinded him, but Oliver had obviously remembered. Considering that Oliver had helped cast that particular spell in their second year, and had been a witness to the events that had led up to it, it really didn't come as a surprise. It still gave him nightmares, remembering the day that a small group of third years had thought it would be funny to hide the 'strange, workaholic' Gryffindor's glasses while he was asleep. Oliver had been woken up by his terrified screams, had been the one to pull him to his feet and into a calming embrace when he had, rather insanely, launched himself from the relative safety of his bed, trying desperately to find his glasses. The result was obvious to anyone who cared to spare such a situation a thought - he'd banged against something almost instantly and crashed to the floor where he had broken down into tears. He'd handled it pretty well, considering he was only 12, and practically blind without his glasses. 

Oliver had handled it far better. But then, Oliver always did. The moment Oliver had gotten him settled back on his bed, he had dashed down to the common room, but not before letting Percy know that he would be back quickly. And he had been. Only 5 minutes, 32 seconds had passed before Oliver had returned, glasses in hand. Oliver had never told him how he had gotten them back so quickly, although the grimly determined face that had been the first thing he had seen when he had slipped his glasses back on perhaps told him all that he needed to know. It had been Oliver, if truth be told, who had thought up the idea of cursing the glasses, and Oliver who had cast the spell. Even then, he'd still been shaking, sniffling loudly as Oliver left one arm wrapped around his shoulders in comfort. 

They'd drifted apart years ago. But they had been close, once. 

Oliver was heading for the Gryffindor common room as well, so they walked together, briefly discussing the advances in Wizard glasses, and how vastly superior they were to Muggle ones, and the chances of Gryffindor winning the Quidditch Cup this year. They were almost at the entrance when Oliver motioned to the heavy book that Percy was carrying. 

"Why in the world are you studying that, Perce? I doubt that there is a huge amount of specific information about Mangolias in there!" 

"Mangolias?" Mangolias were a fascinating subspecies of fern that they had covered at the beginning of the year. "Unlikely, but we DO have to study more than Mangolias." Oliver was looking at him as though he had a few brain cells missing. 

"The exam is a practical one this year, remember?" It was said with a smile and the shake of the head. "It's at the front of our notes, and the plant in question just happens to be -" 

"Mangolias!" He would have to check his notes to be sure, but Oliver was an able student himself and unlikely to make such a mistake. If it was a practical on Mangolias, then the topic would be far easier to study for than if it had been a general exam. Mangolias were not an easy plant to deal with, and were one of the plants he had had problems with - there were few he hadn't had - but narrowing down the field made the subject far less stressful. Oliver grinned at his obvious relief. 

"Yeah, that is what I thought as well. Far easier than Buck weed, or learning the hundreds of different types of fungus." Oliver stopped in front of the Fat Lady, pausing for a moment. "They're bound to be playing a game of Trivial Pursuit in there, want to partner up?" Oliver's grin could only be described as cheeky. "You're bound to be pounced on the moment you get in there, I wanted to nab you as a partner before anyone else got a chance to." 

"That depends," he found himself replying with mock seriousness. "You don't intend to cheat now, do you?" Oliver's warm laugh filled the common room as they entered it, and caught the attention of the small group who were indeed playing Trivial Pursuit. 

"Hey, Perce, wanna team up for a quick round?" 

"Shut up George, he wants to partner his *nice* twin brother, not you." 

"How about teaming with someone who is sane, this time round?" 

"Lavender! You already have a partner!" 

"Believe me Seamus, you're nothing if not dispensable." 

Percy found that his own, quiet chuckles rose to mingle with Oliver's louder ones. He excused himself from the bantering group to go drop his book off in his room, smiling slightly as their voices accompanied him up the stairs. Muttering lightly the enchantment that would allow him to enter his room, he glanced around in nervous excitement, wondering if perhaps his magical giver had been at it again. 

As his eyes came to rest on his desk, Percy found that he had. 

Gone were the books that normally adorned the table in a mess; they had been placed in the half empty bookcase that held the majority of his textbooks and precious little else. In their place was a pile high of sweets, of chocolate Frogs and Boomer Bangers, of non-defrost strawberry ice cream, of ever lasting and ever tasting. As he approached the pile that was so huge that many sweets and cakes had tumbled off the edges and onto the ground, his eyes fell on the envelope that topped the pile as though a golden cherry. _The third day of Christmas._

He didn't know quite what to say. 

He scooped up a handful of the sweets, examining them closely. Half of them he didn't even recognise, but from the brand names that adorned many of their wrappers, one could tell that several of them came from exotic locations. France. Germany. Kuwait. What was he to do with them all? 

"Come on, Perce - what is taking you so long?" Ron's disgruntled voice floated up the stairs, reminding him of his commitment to the game and bringing to mind a possible solution to his dilemma at the same time. With a smile, he cast a spell on the sweets, causing them to rise as one in front of him. With a flick of his wrist, they headed down to the common room, with him firmly in tow. Fred was the first to notice the flying array of sugar, and could only stare at it in disbelief, attracting the others attention as he did. 

"One of the students I tutored sent them instead of a mere thank you note," he lied easily at the surprised looks from his house mates. They didn't question his statement, simply digging eagerly into the sweets that he had let drop to the floor in front of them. With a smile he picked up one of his own as he settled down next to Oliver, glancing at the card that the Quidditch captain was practically growling at. "I take it it is our turn?" 

*****

**The Forth Day of Christmas.**

There were few things more frustrating than being the focus of the Twins' attention. They'd been almost civil these past few days, and it had been short-sighted of him not to realise that such a reprieve was surely only temporary. He tried to ignore the laughing Mermaid who had been giggling non-stop since he had entered the bathroom. She obviously shared the same sense of humour as the twins. He scowled as he glanced up at his reflection, the dark green mass that had once been his red hair mocking him with its outrageousness. It was horrible and revolting and ... 

_"Maybe this way people won't think he is related to us, George!"_

Tired eyes drifted closed, long lashes gently capturing the tears that had threatened to fall ungracefully. The Twins had embarrassed him because they were embarrassed *by* him, so in the end he was a victim of his own faults. If he was more like Ron, or Bill or Charlie ... But, he wasn't. He was simply Percy. The Weasley who didn't seem to quite fit in, no matter how much of a fool he made of himself trying. 

Maybe, if he wasn't the only one trying, he would have more success. 

"And would you shut up!" The words came out as a hoarse demand, and the beautiful mermaid was stunned into silence as a result. Popular amongst the male Prefects especially, she very rarely had anyone raise their voice when speaking to her. Percy himself got along with the painting, during the times he had used the quiet Prefect's bathroom as a refuge when he was unable to reach his bedroom, Twin-free, he'd even chattered stiffly with her, rarely being able to supply her with the gossip she so desired. Even with his eyes still jammed closed, he could feel her eyes studying him. He wondered what kind of image he presented, the Head Boy leaning over a sink, knuckles slowly draining of all their colour as they clutched hopelessly to the basin. Green head bowed in what could only be deemed as submissive, there was not an ounce of strength or confidence that radiated from his body, just a lonely emptiness. 

"I knew your elder brothers, you know," the pretty Mermaid finally spoke up. If the words were intended to draw him from his misery, then the painting knew precious little. Instead, he simply laughed softly, his chuckles ringing with mockery. 

"I'm sure you did." The Mermaid did not miss the implied undertones; her answering grunt of distaste was testament to that. But then, Bill and Charlie had known every pretty girl in the school and had been adored by many of them in turn. Why would the painting that watched them bathe and shower be any different? 

"You remind me of them, with all your moping," she finally continued, and this time his eyes flew open in disbelief, and he spun so he was facing her. "At first, I thought Bill was just over dramatic, but Charlie was just the same." She glanced down at him, as though she was looking for something that he himself couldn't see. "What is it that inspired the three of you to aim for the unachievable, and then upon reaching it, wishing you had never done so? A strange breed, you Weasleys are." 

"What *are* you talking about?" The Mermaid now had his full attention, her words confusing him. 

"Perhaps you should reflect on why your younger siblings have not aimed for similar heights as you, Bill and Charlie did," she answered in a way that left him even more confused. "I hear that even though that youngest brother of yours would have himself be all three of you combined," she broke off to giggle at such a thought, "he is aimless in his desire, and little effort is put into anything other than brooding. He, likes the others, has learnt well from the mistakes those who went before them made." 

"I thought you were a Mermaid, not a Sphinx," he found himself muttering angrily. "You speak in riddles, and riddles are something I could do without." They reminded him far too much of the twins. 

"Tell me, my dear. Are you happy?" It was said quietly, yet he found he could not bring himself to answer her. "If so, then why is it that you often shed tears here, and occasionally use me as a sounding board for your woes?" She lifted a hand as he started to protest. "Now shush, Percy. You know that if I did not want to listen to you, I would simply dash off to visit someone else. But if you aren't happy, you are doing as miserable a job as Charlie and Bill did at hiding it from me." 

"Bill and Charlie were happy, how could they not be - they had everything!" 

"And you do not?" She smiled slightly - he obviously looked as floored as he felt. "Tell me Percy, if Charlie was so happy with his Quidditch, then why did he turn down England to go play with dragons? And if Bill was such a socialising and fun-loving Head Boy, why did he flee to Egypt as soon as he graduated?" 

"It wasn't like that!" he protested, although his own argument was starting to sound meek even to his own ears. "Was it?" 

"That is something you should ask your brothers. There secrets are not ones I should tell, not even to you." She paused, before motioning to a cabinet on the far right wall. "There should be a purple container on the third shelf. If I remember correctly, Marcus Flint used whatever potion is in it to remove a nasty shade of pink dye that your sweet brothers used on him a couple of years back. It should work on that hair of yours." It took him barely a minute to find the particular bottle in question, but when he turned to thank the Mermaid, he found that she had left her frame. The slimy yellow liquid smelled rather foul, but by now he was willing to try anything to remove the horrid green from his hair. Besides, it provided a welcomed distraction from the thoughts that had formed during the Mermaid's speech. 

* 

It was nearly 10pm. While part of him could feel nothing but relief for the fact the horrid day had almost come to an end, another yearned for the wonder that always surrounded the mysterious presents he had been receiving. Perhaps yesterday had been the last day for such gifts, and if so, he shouldn't be acting like some child who had been promised something magical, only to have it go undelivered. Wrapped up in his duvet, he was certainly feeling far less despondent than earlier, so the magic was still there, even if it wasn't presenting itself in a new form. It seemed both silly and selfish to wish for more when he had already been given so much. 

Light snow had begun to fall again, and he found himself mesmerised by their slow journey past his window. What was it like, to be a snowflake? Forever at the whim of wind and gravity, a flake never had to make choices of its own, or deal with 'humorous' brothers. They never had to cope with feelings of emptiness or self-loathing. But then, was it worth it, to have had a journey that was simple and without complications, if the result was to be crushed so easily when impact was made with the ground? Was it not better to try and fight the winds and the breezes, to challenge their control, so that even if you failed, and become simply just another frozen snowflake on the ground, then at least you had tried? 

Melodramatic, the Mermaid had called him. Or was it Bill she had classified as such? It still felt rather disconcerting to think that Bill, perfect Bill, might have had any problems during his last year, and Charlie too. They never talked about Hogwarts in a negative light, yet, neither did he. Perhaps weakness was something his elder brothers found hard to show as well. It was strange to think that he might share something in common with them, after all. 

For the third time that evening, he lifted a hand to his ear, making sure his glasses were still firmly in place, unlikely to be jolted when he stood up. He'd fallen into the nervous habit since yesterday afternoon, and while it was sure to pass in a couple of days, it reminded him of just how vulnerable he was without his glasses. Oh, it had been several years since he had slunk into a round of anger over his eyes, and why his were so badly effected when other Wizards who had had some form of damage done to their eyes had been repaired. Wizard medicine could work wonders, but in most cases, only if the ailment or treatment was attended to practically immediately. A broken arm needed to be attended to within 24 hours, otherwise it would have to heal naturally 'muggle style'; a cold would hang around for what would seem like a hundred lifetimes if not treated in the first four days of symptoms showing. And eyes? Blindness, or other, lesser effects, could be picked up and dealt with before a child was born; it was when it was brought about later in life that problems arose. 

It was with a sigh that he recalled the many times his Mother had said that there had never been a chance of getting him to a Wizard Doctor in time. She seemed to forget, or perhaps simply wanted to, that he *knew* that well enough on his own, without being reminded of it. Phantom cries and desperate pleas for help were all that he let himself linger on, before banishing the memory far away. There were parts of his childhood that he wasn't yet willing to deal with, and this was one of them. And in consideration, poor eyesight was not what one should classify as a huge loss when compared to the mass damage and destruction that Voldemort had inflicted during that time. He'd been lucky to escape that era with only a pair of crummy eyes. 

As he straightened his glasses again, he let his hand rest there as he rose to his feet, heading for the window that he had only just noticed wasn't latched shut properly. One thing the Wizard world had been able to do was create glasses that were far stronger than Muggle ones, so with them on his sight was that of anyone else. 

Reaching for the latch, he tried to pull the window closed that last few inches, but found that it wouldn't budge. Glancing down to see if anything had somehow managed to get stuck in the small space, all thoughts of eyes and the past slid automatically from his thoughts, as he saw that there was in fact something caught in the gap between the window and the latch. An envelope. 

He let the wind catch the window, which caused it to thrust it wide open, as he reached for the envelope. He hadn't doubted for a moment that the golden writing would be his own name, yet it thrilled him all the same. He slipped out the parchment inside, and a wave of giddiness that managed to both embarrass and delight crashed around him. _The Fourth Day of Christmas._ There was nothing else in the envelope, so he glanced around, hoping to catch some glimpse of what could have possibly accompanied the letter this time. 

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me!" 

Floating just outside his window was what could only be an oriental rug. Leaning out over the window pane, he ran a hand over it, feeling the individual woven threads under his hands. Disbelieving eyes took in the elaborate design, and he found himself pushing down on the rug, testing to see just how stable it was. 

A flying carpet. He'd been sent a flying carpet. 

He chewed down on his bottom lip as indecisiveness crept into his thoughts. Flying Carpets were illegal in England, and he could be suspended if he was caught out on it. Not to mention that it was dangerous to use such a gift when he had no idea who the sender was. Yet ... yet, it was unlikely that anyone would be out at this time of night, and if he stayed away from populated areas, then the chances of being seen were almost non-existent. As for the fact the gift could be dangerous, he couldn't bring himself to believe that his secret giver, who could make him feel wonder and amazement that he hadn't felt for years, would be somehow attempting to do him harm. If he was, he was failing miserably. 

Percy Weasley: Head Boy, could have the night off for once, he decided with uncharacteristic bravery and daring, a grin forming. He grabbed his thick winter jacket, pulling it on before jumping up onto the window ledge. Briefly, he ran through the list of spells he could use if anything did go wrong, if the carpet suddenly lost control or if someone happened to be out for a midnight stroll. His resolve wavered slightly as he glanced down at the carpet. It seemed far smaller when one looked at it from above, framed by the snow that was many stories beneath it. He had to force himself to take the first step off the windowsill, and he noticed with a touch of humour that his legs were only slightly shaking. Finding that the carpet was indeed holding his weight, he gently stepped the rest of the way onto it, before dropping quickly to his knees on the thin material. While it appeared to be strongly woven - and beautifully so, he noted, running a finger along the wonderfully woven design - the carpet still flexed and moved on top of the wind currents that were holding the carpet and himself up. 

It was almost, he reflected, like the carpet was floating on gentle waves, calm enough so that you felt no fear of being thrown off, but with just enough crest that you felt as though you were riding the air themselves. It was a feeling much like nothing he had ever experienced before, it had a sense of freedom that being on a broom could never have - you always had to be in complete control when you were on a broom, and it was far easier to fall off of. 

Of course, he knew how to fly a broom. Flying carpets however were certainly not his area of expertise. Experimentally, he leaned forward so both his palms were flat on the carpet before him, then pressed down slightly with his right hand. The carpet dipped slightly, and for a moment he panicked, clutching the cloth beneath him desperately. Yet, the carpet seemed to be able to sense not only his movements, but his thoughts as well, and the spiral he had sent himself into with the slight push of his hand was gentle and slow, as though he were a feather floating on a timid breeze. The slope downwards was slight and wide enough that he could easily keep his balance, and he found himself almost laughing out loud at how wonderful the slow descent was. When he was only a few meters from the ground, he lifted his right hand up off the carpet, causing it to slowly stop, hovering. Perhaps it would be best to practice down low for several moments, before he tried anything more risky ... 

Less than half an hour later, he was soaring over the Forbidden Forest, this time not even attempting to contain his laughs of delight. Dipping low, he skimmed across the top of the trees, before angling the carpet arching upwards before diving steeply back downwards. He dared not enter the forest itself, yet from his view high above the trees, he had seen many of the wonders the forest held. A beautiful unicorn, gazing mournfully at its reflection in a moonlit pond, a pack of winter wolves roaming through the trees, animals that he knew not the names of, plants that he had been able to smell the sweet scents of even from his place with the winds. The Forest which from a distance looked as though it was a mass of nothing more than gnarled, ageing trees, seemed to come to life when flooded by the silver moon. 

Leaving the Forbidden Forest, he guided the carpet towards the Lake, which had been spelled not to freeze over this winter, skimming so low across the lake when he reached it, that he found he could dip one hand over the edge of the carpet and cup the gleaming water in his palm. He brought the carpet to a stop near the middle of the lake, letting the carpet hover mere inches above the waves. He'd never experienced anything like this, it was almost like he himself was flying, tumbling through the clouds and thin winter air. Now he relaxed on the soft rug, stretching out so that he could gaze at the stars above, clear of the snow clouds that had been around earlier. There was something about the crisp, winter evening that made the stars seem to shine brighter, to be bolder in their brilliance. Perhaps his secret giver had shined them himself, he thought with a smile, as he let the quiet lapping of the waves beneath him lull him into peacefulness. 

As drowsiness and the emotional drain of the day started to take over, he gave in without complaint to the demands of sleep, letting his eyes drift shut. It was only the giant squid, who had floated to the surface to see what the strange disturbance above the waves was that some of the mer-people were chattering about below, who would see something that had not been seen for years on the Weasley child: a small, innocently content smile. 

The Squid decided to let him be. The carpet would surely take the boy home when it was time. For now, the child had deserved his rest. 


	3. The Fifth Day of Christmas.

This is the third chapter of "All I Want For Christmas'. It has been finished for a while, but I've been tweaking bits I haven't been happy with. I'm still not completely happy with this, but am enough so at the moment ^_^ 

Special thanks to Kimagure, for letting me borrow her Percy for a while. I did promise to return him in good condition, but, well ... 

*coughs* Anyway, thanks as always also to my wonderful beta, WT2, or as she is now known, Hitokiri Gentatsu. *hugs* 

**The Fifth Day of Christmas. **

Lazy eyes slowly drifted open, vaguely noting his surroundings. He didn't move from where he lay comfortably, did not in fact move anything but his eyes at all. He always awoke in his room, and his brief, awakening glance had confirmed what need not be confirmed, yet his mind had for some reason demanded in any case. 

Blinking back the last remembrance of sleep, he found himself frowning slightly. That was his wall, that was his desk, that was his bookcase. They were all as he remembered; yet there was something not quite right about how they looked. It was almost as though they were out of proportion, or perhaps he had shrunk overnight. Mind muddled by sleep, it took several moments for the likely situation to present itself, and it was enough of a shock that Percy found himself sitting bolt upright, his earlier laziness forgotten. As he had expected, it was not his bed he found he was resting on, for his bed was far higher and presented a completely different angle of the room. No, he had been resting on something almost as soft, but far lower to the ground than his normal sleeping position. 

But a carpet that was hovering just inches above the floor?! 

And then, memories that had been whisked away by sleep, returned. Dazed, he recalled the night of flying with the winds, shaking his head in disbelief that they had occurred during waking moments, and not some wondrous dream. The carpet beneath him starved off such thoughts of denial, although as he became more awake, he found himself almost wishing that denial was a route he could take. Away from the bewitching seduction of the moonlight, and the call of the fresh, winter air, reason could finally be heard, and he found himself paling over his antics the night before. 

What a fool! He'd risked everything he had ever worked for - surely he would have been suspended if he had been caught! - and for nothing more than a glorified joy ride! He couldn't control the slight tremors, or the way his breath hitched in an almost panicked manner as he quickly removed himself from the carpet, not noticing how it moved away the moment he was off of it, as though it had some other appointment to attend to. He sat down on the carpeted floor, resting his head in his trembling hands. What muse of insanity had inspired him to act as though he had little care or sensibility? If there was one thing that he was forever aware of, it was his own responsibilities and confinements. He could just imagine the look of despair and disgust his mother would have rewarded him if she ever found out that he had indulged in such an activity. 

He banished the image instantly. It was too painful to glance at even when it was merely conjured up by himself. To earn his mother's distaste was to lose the one source of support he had in his family, even if that support demanded so much in return. 

He was not quite sure how long he sat there; too terrified by his own actions to do any more than berate himself and sink into self-flagellation. All he knew was that when he managed to raise his head, sunlight now streamed into his room - surely he had not opened the window at any time? And the carpet which had caused him fear was no longer in sight, although he rose to his feet to make sure it had truly departed. 

With an empty sigh, he collapsed in a nearby chair. He felt no hunger; although he was sure it must be past mid day. He had a habit of losing track of time when he fell into such ... moments. Oliver had called them panic attacks, the few times his roommate had been witness to his otherwise carefully guarded secret. But they weren't panic attacks, not in his eyes anyway, for they differed greatly to what he would classify as moments ruled by panic, such as when his glasses became dislodged. He just seemed to freeze for a period of time, that was all. Panic attacks were controlled by desperation and could hardly be hidden; panic attacks could be as physical as they were mental. 

Percy Weasley certainly did not have panic attacks. 

It was rare for him to have such episodes, as it was. Oliver knew of them only through the few he had had during his first couple of years, back when he had not had quite the control he had now. It was only when something seriously went wrong that he slipped into his 'quiet spells.' 

It was time to pull himself together, he thought with a grim smile. Now that was something he did have plenty of experience with. Even though food was the last thing he found he desired at the moment, his mind demanded it, if he was planning on thinking clearly anytime soon. He changed into fresh robes, for he had fallen asleep in yesterday's ones. If he was lucky, the twins would have already have had lunch, and the great hall would be both prank and titter free. Even though the green dye from yesterday had eventually washed out when rinsed under the potion the Mermaid had suggested to him, the sight of Percy Weasley looking like a Lemming was sure to go down in Hogwarts folklore. Just like every other cursed moment. 

The Twins turned out to be elsewhere when he made it down to grab something to eat, for once his luck seemed to be holding, a miracle in itself. But fate was not something one should second guess, and Percy found himself grabbing several pieces of fruit, before heading back out of the great hall. He let himself wonder, making sure to keep away from any of the main corridors, but allowing himself no more restriction than that. Not quite sure exactly where he was, he sat down on a flight of steps that may or may not lead somewhere behind the Slytherin common room. 

The apple was sure to be fresh and crispy, just as Hogwarts apples always were. That the bite he took from his tasted more like dust was most likely due to his own state of mind than any fault of the apple's. But at least it was helping to lift the fog that had settled over his mind, if only somewhat. 

Of course, that meant he had no excuse for not dealing with what had happened these past few days. Worst of all, it meant that 'Percy the Prefect' was likely to regain control, and Prefect Percy was sure to frown on everything he had done lately, not to mention lecture him endlessly. 

A tight smile graced his face, pulled down by self-mockery. One could almost be led to believe that he had a split personality, the Percy who was always in control, and the Percy who had never been. He might even believe it himself; if it wasn't for the fact he knew the 'perfect' aspect of himself to be nothing more than a flimsy facade. Part of him almost wished he did have two personalities within him, as it would mean that at least part of the time he was what everyone thought he was, and somehow that seemed better than being everything that they simply ignored. 

He'd confused even himself with that last line of thought. 

He placed the rest of the apple down, neatly beside the two bananas and the one pear on the step above him. Perhaps food wasn't as helpful as he had always been taught, if they brought with their awareness such strange thoughts. 

A glitter of something gold suddenly caught his eye further down the corridor. Blinking, he realised that what looked like nothing more than a speck of dust from such a distance, was actually coming towards him. He watched, as it wove its way up the corridor, flittering one moment, fluttering the next. It became more solid the closer it got, and it wasn't too long before he could distinguish some form of shape. It wasn't until the golden blob was only a mere few meters away however, that the actual identity of it was revealed. 

A butterfly. A golden butterfly. 

Hogwarts had become a surreal place, of late. 

As the stray butterfly, so out of place in the dark corridors of Hogwarts, fluttered in front of him, he noticed that it was unlike any other he had seen. Looking more closely, he was startled to see that the butterfly was not made up of delicate wings, but tiny specks of golden dust, so tightly inter woven that it was almost impossible to detect where one began or ended. 

The fifth day of Christmas. 

There was no note, no visual reference that supported such a thought, yet he didn't doubt for a moment that the golden butterfly was sent by his mysterious gift giver. It was a rather strange gift, unlike anything he had yet received. There was no symbolism laced in, no underlying understanding about himself that had started to scare him - it was a strange and not quite welcome feeling to realise that someone knew you far too well. 

No, the butterfly was none of that, but at the same time, was certainly no less. 

Percy started as the butterfly suddenly fluttered up the stairs, and he felt himself following, as though some invisible thread connected him to the creature. As it twisted down an array of corridors, its speed varied between a light dawdle and an all out intense pace that Percy found himself having to run simply to keep the butterfly in his sights. As he sprinted down the corridor, he thanked what ever gods that looked out for silly Head Boys that they were avoiding all the main corridors - he doubted even the twins could come up with a decent enough reason on the spot for why the Head Boy was dashing down the corridors after a butterfly of all things. 

Hell, he doubted the twins could come up with a face saving explanation, even if they had 10 years. Half a second, however, and he was sure they could have a humiliating one. 

By the time the butterfly came to halt outside one of the old Muggle Studies classrooms, Percy would have freely admitted to anyone that he was winded. He wasn't known for his athletic nature, and running up and down stairs, through corridors and jumping from one ledge to another, was certainly beyond him at the best of times. But, he noted with a touch of sadness, there was no-one to share this rare admission with. This part of Hogwarts had been used many years before, when the population of the school had not been so drastically minimised by the war against Voldemort. Even now, almost 15 years later, the school still didn't have the vast amount of students it once had, as it surely wouldn't for another 10 years or so. 

The door the butterfly hovered in front of looked like the handful of others that made up the forgotten corridor, and he found himself hesitant to open it. It was almost like time had ceased to pass, here. If he strained his ears enough, he could almost here the phantom laughter of students who had passed through, and he wondered where they were now, if they had been lucky enough to survive a war that had taken with it many of their classmates. Had they stormed through here, muttering about how much they hated their Transfig. teacher, or worrying about an assignment, in this corridor that was not unclean, but certainly not free of the grime that clung to things that went unused for any length of time. 

Had one of them perhaps, hoped for a golden butterfly of their own? 

Shaking off the ghosts that were from a past not of his own for once, he turned the door handle, surprised when it opened with ease. He chided himself almost immediately - did he really believe the butterfly would lead him all the way here, only to gift him with a locked door? With a wry shake of his head, he entered. 

The room was well lit, and he had to blink several times as his eyes adjusted to the contrasting brightness that the room had to the corridors outside. A large window on the far side dominated the room, and the view gazing out onto the mountain range that Hogwarts backed onto was breathtaking. Or, certainly would have been, if Percy had done more than glance at it. His eyes had been drawn almost instantly the centre of the room, the only area that wasn't devoid of anything. He almost considered simply walking straight back out of the room again, for his legs were shaking even more than when he had first stepped onto that cursed carpet the night before, and somehow he just knew that this had the potential to be more dangerous than the carpet had ever been. 

The easel was made of a fine wood, yet felt, he discovered once his legs managed mysteriously to carry himself to it, an age old. Already a sheet of paper was firmly placed on it, waiting impatiently for the paints that were sitting on a table just to the left to bring colour and design to it. Absently, he let his eyes drift over a hard backed sketchbook, and an array of pencils that varied in both thickness and shape. Slowly, he lowered his hand to one, the perfect size for a brief outline, and looked it over carefully, before glancing up at the stark white paper. 

Far more dangerous than the carpet. 

But just as tempting. 

*

**The Sixth Day of Christmas.**

"And the day before that, you wouldn't believe what I received! A flying carpet, a *carpet* of all things!" Percy finished off, scrubbing his hands beneath the flowing water. He'd decided when he had got up that morning that he needed someone to talk to about all of this, because it was beginning to drive him slightly mad. He'd run through an admitably short list of people: Hermione had been passed over due to the fact she might possibly share such information with Ron, Oliver had been avoided as he would simply laugh and ask if he was making things up, and Penelope hadn't spoken to him ever since their rather messy break-up. 

He'd considered, just for a moment, writing to Bill or Charlie. Even now, his mind clouded by other thoughts, he hadn't been able to forget what the mermaid had told him, but he had made it no further than pulling out the parchment and pen required before he had backed down. Surely they both had better things to do with their time than deal with his silly problems. 

"A flying carpet, you say?" The beautiful mermaid spoke up, a smile on her face. "That sounds rather exotic - it must have been a wonderful experience." 

"It was, at least at the time," he admitted gruffly. "But think what would have happened if I'd been caught! They would have expelled me, my career would be in tatters, my family humiliated. And for what? One night amongst the stars?" 

"Somehow I think you might have enjoyed the consequences of such a discovery, in the future," she responded brightly, but with that eerie seriousness that never ceased to make him think - or worry. "Nobody would be expecting you to be perfect, not after all that!" 

He laughed, finding he couldn't not. Scrubbing hard at his hands - who knew paint was so hard to remove from under your nails? - he let her have that one victory, although it would be the only one she was entitled to. Too often the painting managed to one-up him with her intelligence and insight, restricting her to one remark would be a remarkable achievement. 

"I don't know why you are trying so hard, with that paint," she commented. "From what it sounds like, you're going back up there after you've finished with me, why waste so much energy when you are only going to be getting dirty again?" He didn't know how to answer her question, so didn't. Being immaculate and tidy had always been important to him, although he couldn't quite remember why. Rather, he could, but preferred not to. Even now that his robes were new and of a fairly recent style, he couldn't rid himself of the memories of being taunted as a child because all of his clothes were old and tattered, so unlike the perfection that was everyone else. He'd spent hours scrubbing them, not caring when he ruined his hands from having them soaked in washing water for too long, or the allergic reaction he had to the only cleaning liquid he had been able to afford on his barely there allowance. And still, he had never been able to rid his clothes of that used look, never been able to force away that look that distinguished them from everyone else's. 

They'd called him unclean and dirty, so he had done everything to try and prove them wrong. It had become almost an obsessive habit at one stage, and he winced as he remembered the times he had taken showers three or four times a day. It hadn't made any difference. It never did. 

Perhaps noticing his distress, the mermaid motioned towards the sketchbook that had been protectively placed out of harms way on the floor with the rest of his books. 

"You never mentioned that you drew. Can I see some of it?" She said it as she always did, with an inquisitiveness that was completely lacking of pressure. It was the type of question that you could easily say no to, and simply *know* that she would take no offense. Still, he hesitated. Part of him wanted nothing more than to share some of his sketches with someone, but another part, the part that had always resulted in his sketchbooks being hidden guiltily and scornfully away, feared showing them to anyone, least they laugh at his one sanctuary. 

"This is the new sketch book," he answered, knowing he was avoiding the question. "It, it only has one picture in it, and it isn't any good. *I'm* not any good." He didn't want her to feel as though she had to rain him with false praise, not over this. His art, no matter how amateur and tacky, was the only honest thing he felt he had anymore. She smiled encouragingly, and after a brief pause, he dried his hands before picking up the sketchbook. Flicking it open, he moved over to the painting, trying to calm the nerves that were beginning to bubble within him. Once he was close enough, he practically thrust the page at the mermaid, needing to show it to her before he lost all confidence. 

"Oh, Percy," The mermaid finally said with a sigh, after looking at the sketch silently for several moments. "How is that no-one knows of this? I didn't know that such wonder had the ability to be concealed." 

Her words stunned them, far more than if she had gone on about the different details of the picture. He glanced at the sketch, trying to figure out why such a picture was so special to anyone but himself. It was done entirely in pencil, other than the boldly coloured figure that was walking down the sketched corridor. He supposed that very few people wouldn't be able to tell that the student dressed in Hogwarts robes was himself, the fiery red hair and the silver frames of the glasses which were the only real colour in the piece, were also the most telling of who the subject was. Although the corridor itself was drawn with rather heavy and bold strokes, the small figures that crowded the corridor the figure was walking down was done in a light hand, a ghostly thin grey instead of the darker black used elsewhere. 

He let his eyes linger for a moment on each of the figures, all of them children, no more than 5 years old. He knew each of them by memory, even though he had only drawn the picture roughly that morning. There was the small girl playing hopscotch, a boy playing with a fake broom. 5 children were running through the throng of kids, ducking and weaving in a game of tag, jostling the brother and sister who were playing skip rope with a friend. One child was sitting against the far wall, content with his book, while yet another was singing happily to herself as she danced, lost in her own world. Together, they projected an image of merriment and companionship, so different to the picture of himself, which, with its slightly hunched shoulders, seemed to radiate loneliness, even when surrounded by others. 

"My art room was on the south side," he explained quietly, needing to explain even though it was obvious that the mermaid had understood the picture. "I ... I couldn't help but think of the students who last walked through those corridors, and what had become of them. He glanced up and the painting, wanting her to understand. "This morning, when I went there ..." he trailed off for a moment, searching for words, "- instead of thinking of those who had been there before, I thought of those who should have been there beside me." He forced his eyes back to the picture, fighting back the lump that was rising in his throat. "But they never got the chance, did they? And maybe, maybe things would have been different, if they had." 

He wanted to be angry for revealing so much. He wanted to be berating himself for showing the picture to the mermaid, a picture that was an extension of his soul. But, he couldn't. It felt good to be able to talk to someone, even if that someone was a painting in the male prefects bathroom who liked to spend her free time ogling at his naked fellow prefects. He would just have to put this down as one of the many frequent non-Percyish moments he had been having of late. 

"It is a brilliant picture, Percy - I never would have guessed you had such wonderful talent, although Lyona has always said you had an artistic soul." Her words made him pause for a moment, as he tried to put a face to the name. He blushed when he realised that the mermaid was talking of the painting of a lioness in the library. 

"You've been gossiping about me, again," he accused, but a smile rose up through his blush. 

"I gossip about everyone," she dismissed with her own smile, before winking. "Why, you wouldn't believe some of those things those twin brothers of yours get up to! Only yesterday, Sir Lancelot was telling me-" 

"Don't!" He broke in, raising a hand in mock defense. "If you tell me, I'll have to tell Mother, and the twins would certainly find some horrid way of extracting revenge on me for that." 

"Besides, we do have more interesting things to discuss than the twins," the mermaid agreed, the twinkle never leaving her eyes. "You haven't mentioned how you've been thanking your mysterious giver yet. Are you leaving thank you notes, flowers? I'm sure you must be leaving her something." 

Oops. 

"I ... I actually hadn't thought of that," he admitted, shame colouring his cheeks. "I guess I've been too caught up with it all, I haven't had a moment to think." He did now, realising just how ungrateful he must seem, and became determined to rectify the situation as soon as possible. As he nodded his thanks to the mermaid, she rewarded him with a devilish smile, almost as though she was waiting for him to say something. 

"Hang on, did you say 'her'?" The slip excited him, it was rare for the mermaid to make one. "How do you know?" 

"Bottom shelf, far right," she answered innocently, and Percy found himself rushing to the cupboard, dropping to his knees once he had flung open the doors. Hasty hands quickly found something that resembled neither bottle or wash cloth, and he pulled the square object out with as much delight as a 10 year old on their birthday. The gift was wrapped in gold paper, and a hand writing that was achingly familiar yet not quite placable had scribbled 6 words on the top. 

_On the Sixth Day of Christmas._

"You were here when they - she," he corrected, "-left this here?" 

"You know better than to expect an answer, Percy. It would take the fun out of it!" She spoke with a giggle, guessing his thoughts before Percy could verbalise them. "Well, are you going to open it? I only saw it placed here, not what is inside it." 

With a gentleness that was often forgotten when it came to wrapping paper of any kind, he slowly removed the golden wrap, before lifting up the lid of the plain box inside. Colour rose to his cheeks - was this going to happen *everytime*? - and he turned to the mermaid who was glancing back at him, questions in her eyes. 

"Are you sure this was left for me?" he asked, and she glanced back at him as though he was clueless. 

"Of course it is for you, you idiot." Her eyes lit up. "What is it, naughty underwear or something? Are you going to model them for me?" 

"No!" he replied hotly, and perhaps a tad too quickly, because the mermaid now looked more interested than before. "I mean, it isn't underwear of any kind, and I certainly wouldn't model them for you even if they were." Seeing that the mermaid was growing inpatient, and there were few worse things than dealing with her in such a mood, he reached a ginger hand into the box, removing the two items inside. 

"Oh," she simply said in response. "Is that what I think it is?" 

"If you think that it is a bottle of wine and a champagne glass, then yes," he replied with a wry smile, yet it somehow wobbled at the corners as he let his gaze drift back down to the very much Hogwarts-illegal present. Perhaps his giver really was trying to get him expelled, after all. 

He'd never drank anything stronger than butter-beer before. 

"17 is certainly old enough to have a drink or two - but don't go drinking the whole bottle tonight," the mermaid offered, smiling. She had obviously noted the rather confused glare he was directing at the bottle. "It is quite nice, I've heard. Perfect for relaxing. And painting." 

"You are not the most subtle picture, you know that?" This time his small smile was slightly stronger. 

"Shoo," she responded playfully, gesturing with her hands to take the present with him. "You're not the only one who uses this bathroom, you know. I'm sure the last thing you want others to think is that you are having an illicit romance with a painting, although I can't say your taste would be bad, if that were the case." 

He rose from his position on the floor, but not before placing the present carefully back in the box. He ignored how the mermaid grinned as he hugged it close to his chest as he went to exit, waving farewell. 

"Don't forget to leave him a thank-you letter, this time!" she called out as he closed the door. When he opened it again, mere moments later, he was greeted with an innocent smile. 

"He?" 

"Come now, Percy - you don't think I would really give such a tantalising clue away so early?" 

Her laughter stayed with him all the way to his art room. 

*

The first sip had been hesitant; he had heard horror tales of students who had sneaked in alcohol, only to make an idiot of themselves when they couldn't hold their liquor. How much restraint did he have to impose, to prevent himself from going too far? 

Two sips was all right. As was three. He paused after each one, letting the warm liquid roll gently over his tongue, before swallowing it slowly. The tingling sensation the wine caused as it went down his throat was certainly different, although not unpleasant. 

After the fourth tiny sip, he picked up the paint brush. Charms had been placed on the room to make sure no-one stumbled into it, at any time. It was unlikely anyone but the twins would venture into this part of the school anyway, yet who worse to find his art than them? 

With a critical eye, he stared at the outline that he had spent all yesterday afternoon and long into the night working on. He had already added a touch of colour this morning before going to see the mermaid, but it had only been a first coat to the sky that dominated the top quarter of the painting. Beneath the brilliant skyline lay the forbidden forest, mostly densely populated with trees of all forms, yet not so much that from the birds eye view of the forest that you couldn't see some of the magical creatures that it held. 

Perhaps 'birds eye' wasn't quite the right expression to use. For, soaring above the forest, was a flying carpet, a small figure hovering at the edge, glancing down in wonder. Biting his bottom lip in thought, he put the paint brush down gently, before picking up a pencil. With a hesitant hand, he sketched two more figures onto the carpet, one who was pointing down eagerly at a wolf club, far in the forest below, the other who was simply sitting contentedly, a hand on the original person's shoulder. His shoulder. 

Charlie and Bill. 

He spared the picture one more glance, before removing it from the easel. He would work on it later this evening, after he had finished his new project. It was about time he started taking the mermaid's advice. 


End file.
